Tattered Leather, Broken Wings
by SystemicBlue
Summary: Rick is an ousted double agent on the run from the mob. Stranded and alone in the northern wilderness, an unlikely rescuer comes to his aid. But who is this mysterious stranger? And why can't Rick shake the feeling that he's hiding secrets darker than even his own? (Rick/Daryl Pairing, AU).


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Chapter 1

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 _Ka-thump, ka-thump, ka-thump._

All Rick could hear was his own heartbeat pounding in his ears; his own labored breath, roaring too loud. He crashed through the underbrush blindly while branches and thorns whipped at his face and arms. He could already feel blood running down his forehead, clouding his eyes and dripping into his mouth. Metallic. Warm. Salted with his own sweat.

Rick couldn't tell how long he'd been running. He was uncharacteristically disoriented, with no idea which way was up or down. He could be heading west (he hoped) or straight down south into the mouth of hell for as much as he had his bearings at this point. All he knew was the "flight" half of his flight or fight instinct was running in overdrive and he'd already felt one too many bullets whiz by his head. He was fairly positive he'd have a few unwanted holes in his jacket—if not the rest of his body—by the time he made it out of this.

If. That was a big goddamn "if" at this point.

A graceless 'oomf' fell from his lips as Rick tripped over a hidden root, scrambling as he came dangerously close to losing his footing. The lapse in concentration opened his ears, his heart rate spiking as he caught the distant din of angry voices, the barking of tracking dogs.

Close. Way too close. They were gaining on him.

Where the extra burst of speed came from, he had no idea. It was pure adrenaline now. Arms raised in a useless attempt to protect his abused face, he crashed recklessly through the thick foliage and brush with a frantic prayer he was going in the right direction.

Make it to the border. Make it to the river.

Out of the stronghold where Negan's iron fist held absolute control and into the badlands. He had almost made it to the dead zone by road when the Saviors caught up to him, leaving him with one option: ditch the car, ditch the road, and hightail it for the border like a bat out of hell.

A mile hadn't seemed like far when he first spotted the telltale dust cloud of an angry envoy in his rear view mirror. He'd known he wouldn't have a chance outrunning them on the open road, but the woods... these godless, dark northern forests... well. The Saviors feared them. Almost deified them with their whispers and awe.

Rick had dumped the Jeep in the nearest ditch and sprinted for the treeline, only knowing the river was somewhere beyond.

These trees... the Saviors hated these trees.

Men went in. Bones came out. There was something evil and ominous lurking in those branches, or so the story went.

God only knew Rick had spent enough time embedded with them to know their superstition bordered on reverence.

So why the hell were they following him in here now?

They were hot on his tail, he could hear them... closer every minute. There had to be almost a hundred men in that envoy, which all things considered seemed like overkill. Negan must have put quite a bounty on his head to get them to forget about the mindless fear they harbored for the badlands.

Well. He technically wasn't in the badlands yet. Less than a mile to go, less than a mile to freedom. With every step the distance closed. He had to be almost there... he could almost taste his freedom.

 _Ka-thump, ka-thump, ka-thump._

So close.

Keep running. Make it to the river. Make it out.

A heavy branch whipped across his face, stinging, blinding. He let out a grunt of pain, and maybe that's what did it. Maybe it broke his concentration. Maybe it was the yelling, getting closer behind him and triggering something too close to panic. Maybe he was just exhausted and strung out from days on the run, not sleeping, not eating, not thinking about anything except base survival.

Whatever it was, it kept him from noticing when the trees suddenly cleared. When the ground changed. When it wasn't roots and rotten leaves sucking at his boots, but sand and gravel.

He sure as hell noticed when the ground under his feet vanished completely. And just like that, he was free-falling into emptiness.

He might have screamed. His mouth opened along with his eyes. The water was too far down; it looked like miles. A flash of rocky cliff, a sandy shore skirting the river, wide as an ocean. That's all he remembered before he hit the water, and it might as well have been a brick wall.

Then, only darkness.

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A glint of light. At first it was sharp, like the sudden gleam of sunlight off of broken glass as it shattered. Then it softened, shaped, changed into something almost like... eyes.

Blue eyes.

The damn brightest blue-grey shade Rick had ever seen. In fact, he hadn't even know that color existed in reality.

Or maybe it didn't exist at all, because for all he could tell he was halfway dead and hallucinating. The way color and sound swirled around him he only knew for sure he wasn't quite awake. Reality came to him in small pieces, not quite coherent, but not quite pleasant enough to be a dream.

Somewhere in-between, then.

There was a steady, vice-like pressure around his ankles. That came next. Constant movement, and the body-wide heaviness of soaked clothing weighing his limbs down followed quickly.

Against his will, Rick let out a long groan as his head bounced off a rock and he became acutely aware that he was very, _very_ sore. And sick. The movement wasn't just physical. His vision was swimming and the patches of sunlight filtering like a strobe light through leaves overhead wasn't helping.

"Quiet," a voice hissed at him from somewhere above, surprising him. Rick's eyes snapped open, eyes he didn't even know he'd shut.

There was that color again, his eyes finding it like a magnet. A gaze meeting his. Rick realized now that the color, half-sure a shade he'd imagined, was entirely real. For a moment it stole his breath. He stared up at those glass-blue eyes framed in a pale, dirt-smudged face. Tousled dark hair fell in waves, unkempt and wild. There was something oddly striking about that face... and dangerous.

For a fleeting moment Rick felt that he was looking less upon a human as he was a wild creature. Feral. Wounded. Coiled to strike.

The face frowned, aging otherwise young features, and turned away. Rick's eyes traveled sluggishly downward, tracing thin, toned arms to long fingers grasping his ankles, pulling him through the underbrush. That's why he felt like he was moving. He _was_ moving.

This stranger was dragging him along the ground, to god only knew where... and Rick didn't have the energy to care. His whole body ached and his skull felt like it weighed about a ton and a half.

Rick made another half-hearted attempt to open his eyes and figure out through muddled senses who this stranger was, this animal in a young man's skin. His rescuer... or his executioner. The only thing he could see from his position was a torn leather vest hanging over slim shoulders, and what might've been a pair of angels wings stitched on the back. Once-white, they were faded and stained with what could have been dirt or blood or equal parts of both.

Again, his head struck something hard and unforgiving and Rick bit his lip to stifle his groan. The pain spiked, thrumming in his temples, traveling down his throat like a strong drink.

For a moment, he was certain he was going to throw up. His stomach turned and something acidic like blood and bile welled up in his throat. Thankfully, he didn't have the time to be sick.

Consciousness fled for the second time that day.

Blackness.

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End file.
